


Voices

by WahlBuilder



Series: Scarves and Mittens [6]
Category: Deus Ex: Human Revolution
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:32:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2794874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen has been spared death and he started hearing voices, and he forgot that he's not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voices

He had been hearing voices. Ever since he had returned, he started to hear voices. He hadn’t been aware before that sometimes, if he sat in complete silence, he could hear voices of people outside his apartment, arguing, singing, laughing, talking.

Christmas was approaching, with voices of all kinds, and it only made Jensen feel more hollow.

He had been prepared to die, but was spared and now he didn’t know what to do with himself, what to do with his life.

He heard voices of people that weren’t here. The people he had condemned to painful death in dark water. He should have died with them.

He had been in pain and tired of all the lies and conspiracies and responsibilities he didn’t ask for, and he had decided to bury it all and let the world unravel and judge. But then he had been denied this.

Malik had come for him.

Pritchard had come for him.

He was prepared to die, _wanted_ to die. But they had come for him, Pritchard had dragged him into Malik’s bird, and he was too exhausted, too injured to fight. They got him home. He had been put into questioning by the police and he had gathered enough strength and willpower to avoid all verbal traps and hint at places where they could find the answers themselves.

He himself didn’t have any answers. Didn’t want to have.

He had only voices.

Sarif’s voice was still ringing in head. An empty tumbler that he hadn’t filled during their quarrel was still standing on the counter. He couldn’t make himself to take it away, to throw it, to break it, shatter it to pieces.

What purpose did he have now? His own body was an eternal reminder of those events, of people he had killed. He had been cautious, using his superior augmentations to his advantage and sneaking past guards and systems, tried to use non-lethal methods when it was impossible to remain a shadow. But the Panchaea facility, all those people… A mass grave at the bottom of the ocean, and he should have been there. He was a key and a pawn, and he was tired, so tired…

His pistol was getting more and more tempting.

He didn’t drink, it couldn’t drown all the voices and the memories. He took the remaining half a year of his paid leave, because the company was a mess and so was he. He knew he should get his shit together, do something, talk to somebody. But he didn’t care. And he couldn’t talk about this with anybody, could he?

Silence was ringing around him with voices and screams, and for a moment he thought he was suffocating, drowning, he tugged at his hair, hard, and the pain of it returned him to the present. He heard the door of his apartment opening. He jumped to his feet, a pistol in his hands, but his vision blurred, and suddenly he was falling on the couch, panicking.

Two hands grabbed him by his shoulders, stopping him from falling, easing him slowly on the couch.

“Jensen, God, you look awful.”

The voice startled him, it was so human, so real.

He blinked and then croaked, “Pritchard? What… What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t answer your phone or infolink, I was worried.”

Jensen’s head cleared, and he stared into cyberspecialist’s blue eyes. Pritchard was frowning, as ever, and that, more than anything else, made Jensen avert his eyes.

“Worried? About me?” he huffed, trying to hide his emotions and thoughts behind usual walls of defense.

“Yes, about you,” Pritchard replied. “I didn’t drag you from the cold ocean to have you miserable at my hands here.”

“I’m not miserable, you’re delusional.” Only then he noticed he was shirtless, and, embarrassed, he made a move to get up, but Pritchard grabbed his forearm, an unusual physicality for the head of cyber-security, and that made Jensen stop.

“Prove it, Jensen, prove that I’m delusional,” Pritchard said and then he tugged at Jensen’s arm, making him look into blue eyes once again. There was something soft in them that made Jensen’s heart clench. “You need help, Adam.”

“Nobody can help me, _Francis_ ,” he snapped, hiding his surprise behind harsh tone. Pritchard had never called him by his first name before, but this was different, something had shifted and it made the world sway around Jensen.

Pritchard was insistent. “You can—”

“I don’t deserve help,” he said softly, looking at his hands. The lights of the city were dancing on their surface. He clenched his fists, the inhuman strength shifting in his augmentations.

“Hey, look at me.”

Another hand closed over his fist, strong and reassuring.

“I was there, too, remember? I've been there with you, through it all, up until the last moments, and I...” Pritchard trailed off, bowing his head, his voice turning into a murmur, “You shouldn't be alone. Tonight is Christmas, and you shouldn't be alone, not now, not... not ever. Malik's coming over, she's bringing food, and we are gong to eat and talk, watch a cheesy movie if you want to, and we’re not going to leave until you eat and sleep properly.”

Jensen was silent, struck by these words, his walls cracking with almost audible dry sound.

Pritchard fumbled with wide orange scarf he was wearing, his words stumbling over each other, “The lady at the reception told me they’re going to fix the heating in an hour or so, and it’s cold in here, why are you not wearing a shirt?” He unwrapped some of his scarf, hastily put it around Jensen’s neck, and then clever fingers sneaked into Jensen’s hair. Pritchard leaned closer, and their foreheads touched. Blue eyes were closed, and Jensen could feel warmth of the other man. They were linked by the scarf.

He didn’t move, only whispered, bitter, “There’s more of a machine in me than in a boxguard, Francis.”

“But there’s a man,” came a soft answer, and Pritchard — _Francis_ — lightly tapped his knuckles on the center of Jensen’s chest, the touch almost unreal to Jensen. “There’s a man in there, too. And I'm not going to give that man up.”

It was a confession of sorts, too surprising, too confusing for Jensen’s still hazy mind, and he had questions, plenty of them, about Francis’ reasons to come after Jensen, about his words and regret he had heard in Francis’ voice when their link had been cut in Panchaea. But it all could wait.

He closed his eyes and for once there were no voices, only steady breathing of two people in the silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Now with an [art](http://augmented-mind.tumblr.com/post/105543713418/you-shouldnt-be-alone-not-now-not-not) (thank you <3)


End file.
